


Wings

by old-kirjavi (Kirjavi)



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: Gen, Same AU as Long-Forgotten Stories, Vaguely trigger-y, just so you know, some blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 08:19:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3970723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirjavi/pseuds/old-kirjavi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hard, learning to walk when she's so used to flying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wings

**Author's Note:**

> I know everyone and their mother has written one of these, but this is my take on what happened after they defeated the Beast, and how Beatrice finally got her family back. This is set in the same AU as "Long-Forgotten Stories", but you don't need to read that before reading this. The only thing that's really different is that Wirt blows out the lamp

Wings

After Wirt blows out the lamp, there is a moment of perfect silence. They stare at each other in the clearing, the Woodsman, the Pilgrim, the Bird, and the Beast. Then, a terrible, painful skriking like the shrieking of the wind in the trees, or the howling of a man as his heart is ripped, dripping crimson, out of his chest. She is blown backwards by an explosion of air, sending her tumbling tail over beak.

The glowing eyes of the Beast flicker in and out like stars and shadows twist and writhe about his shrouded figure. Then suddenly, a flare of light so bright she covers her head with her wings and squinches her eyes shut (she can still see dots floating around on her eyelids, the afterimage of the flash). The light seeping through her eyelids goes from vivid red, to rust, to black again. She opens her eyes to the dark clearing. And it's over.

In the waning light of the half-moon, Beatrice can see an empty lantern turned on its side and the Woodsman on the ground, sobbing tearlessly like a man half-broken. Torn between wanting to comfort him and offer him some sort of consolation for the loss of his daughter, she wavers a bit but turns away. She flies unsteadily to Wirt and helps him tear the Edelwood tendrils off of his brother. She watches as he hefts Greg up onto his back and walks into the Forest, following a path home only he could see.

She flies after him, leaving behind the forsaken clearing and the shadow of the Beast.

When they are in the shadows again, she stops, perches on a branch. Wirt, hearing the sound of her wings turn to silence, stops too and turns around. "Wirt–" she begins, but falters.

"Come with us," he says, and she looks at him. He's so determined to bring some part of the Unknown back with him, and she doesn't have the heart to tell him that, over the garden wall, she's just another gravestone, crumbling in the grass.

"I– I gotta go home too," she says instead, fidgeting on the branch. "Admit to my family it's my fault they're bluebirds."

Wirt clears his throat and holds up a pair of scissors. Her tiny bird heart stutters in her feathered chest and she blurts out, "What?" in disbelief.

"The scissors. That'll make your family human again."

"You had them all this time?" she cries, not entirely sure if she's angry or elated.

"I– I used them to escape Adelaide and then– then. . . I– I was sort of mad at you." His face reddens and she feels a familiar guilt settle into the pit of her stomach. He stutters when he's nervous, a part of her absently remarks.

"Oh, you– wonderful mistake of nature!" She darts forward and throws her wings about him in a rough approximation of a hug. He was warm against her wind-chilled feathers.

His hand rises to gently cradle her back, and she knows she is at least somewhat forgiven.

They continue on in shadow as she rides along on his shoulder. Her feet dig into the fabric of his cloak and she tries to think of what to do next.

It feels almost wrong to break the silence when she says, "Wirt."

"Yeah?"

"Can you. . . can you cut them off? The wings, I mean." It feels odd saying it. Like she's asking him to look at her naked or something.

"What, here?" He sets Greg down gently and gently lifts her off of his shoulder so he can see her.

"Yes." Maybe this isn't the best idea. What if he cuts off her head or something? Just get it over with, Bea! she chides herself.

"Okay." His voice is quiet, unsure. He grabs the scissors and in the dim, barely-there light of the moon, he begins feeling his way down her wing with his fingers, looking for the seam of muscle joining it to her back.

Beatrice feels his hands shaking as he places the cold edge of the scissors on her wing. The scissors tighten, shearing off a few faded blue feathers. They spiral lazily to the ground and Wirt drops the scissors. "I can't do this," he admits shakily. He sounds as if he was about to throw up.

A drop of blood crawls its sluggish way through her feathers. It itches.

"Wirt," she says, trying to gentle her voice. "Calm down. Take a deep breath." She decides to follow her own advice and breathes in, closing her eyes in an attempt to calm down.

He does as she says and takes a deep, shuddering breath. She hears the clink of the scissors being picked up again, and the cold metal of the black is pressed against her wings once more. His hands are marginally steadier now.

She lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding and does her best to hold still, but it's not easy.

She had thought that, the scissors being magical and all, that getting her wings snipped off wouldn't hurt. She's wrong.

Oh, God, is she wrong.

Beatrice feels the bite of the scissors as they shear through muscle and bone like a burning and a biting, like sticking a hand into a flame and then feeding it to the wolves. It is excruciating, and she wonders if this is what it feels like to be burned alive.

The gruesome crunch as the scissors break through bone echos around the darkened trees and Wirt swallows hard as he starts on the other wing. The first wing falls to the ground with a muffled thump as it hits the leaves. She shuts her eyes tight and tries to ignore the pain, but it's hard.

She know the moment he slices through the last tendon. A prickling, aching sensation flows through her veins and she feels herself growing, lengthening, and arms grow from the stubs on her back.

She doesn't know how long it takes, but suddenly she is aware that she is crouching on the floor of the forest, a young girl with two tattered feathers cupped gently in her hands.

Beatrice sits back down on the ground, noting in the back of her mind that she was back in her old blue dress. She holds her hands up to her face, marveling at her fingers. She looks up at Wirt (he looks so much smaller now in human eyes). "Thank you," she says. Her voice is rusty, as if she's been screaming.

He makes an awkward Wirt-noise in the back of his throat. "No problem," he says uncomfortably. He glances toward the trees, where a soft, pulsing light can be seen. "Uh, I– I should. . ." He gestures toward the light.

"Oh. Right." She grabs his offered hand and pulls herself up, ignoring the way her legs wobble underneath her.

They stand facing each other and she notes absentmindedly that without his hat, she would be taller than him. A part of her wants to smirk at how they both avoid meeting the other's eyes. Aren't we past that? she wants to yell. Why can't I say what I want to say?

Wirt picks his brother up again and the little boy smiles in his sleep. "Well," he says awkwardly. "Goodbye, Beatrice."

"Goodbye, Wirt," she says quietly. She watches them walk toward the light and go through. His hat is the last thing to disappear from sight. All of the things she wants to say but can't lie stillborn on her tongue, a sad, heavy weight.

I wish I hugged him, whispers her mind, and she sighs.

She makes her way back through the woods on unsteady legs. It's hard learning how to walk again when you're so used to flying. The only sounds piercing the cold air is the soft crunch of bare feet in snow and the sound of her breath puffing out clouds of fog. It's too quiet without them, and she finds herself listening for other voices in the mist.

Her feet go numb, but she doesn't feel it. All she feels is the slick metal of the scissors in her frozen hands and a feeling in her chest she didn't yet dare to name.

Beatrice checks every hollow tree she passes for her family. All the trees look the same at ground level.

She come to the edge of the forest and her heart sinks. Somehow, she must have missed her family's nest. She turns around, readying her heavy feet for another freezing walk through the woods, and her eyes catch upon her footprints. They were spotted and speckled with flecks of blood. Somehow, she had cut her feet as she walked. She didn't even feel it.

She turns around and heads back into the Forest, resigned to combing through the trees again. She reaches the beginning of the Forest proper when she stops abruptly. Something tugs her to the side and she is pulled to a tree.

With shaking hands (it's the cold, she's sure of it, she's not afraid of failure) she circles the tree, looking for an opening. At first, she doesn't see one and her heart sinks lower, then she rounds a curve and there it is. She looks in and the hollow is full of sleeping bluebirds, their feathers ruffled up against the cold.

The bird sleeping closest to the mouth of the hollow stirs, awakened by the soft breeze of her breath. It opens its eyes and she sees the warm gaze of her mother, the same even though the body is different. "Beatrice?" her mother says, confused.

"Hi, Mom," she says. "I'm home."


End file.
